


it is the youth that must fight (and die)

by anastasia_lee_bones



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Murder, Auror Harry Potter, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mystery, Post-Hogwarts, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, btw this is NOT A DEATH FIC, but no naughty stuff when he's younger, draco is feeling old and confused next to this young angry harry, harry is just a smol bean for most of this fic okay, title is just dramatic lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anastasia_lee_bones/pseuds/anastasia_lee_bones
Summary: Harry's been plucked from the middle of the war, with none other than a mysteriously older Draco Malfoy for company. With no one around to help, Harry must choose if he believes this unusual version of his rival, or try to fight his way out.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley (past), Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley (background)
Kudos: 10





	it is the youth that must fight (and die)

Harry gazed around blearily, forehead aching, his too-large glasses sliding down his nose. He shakily stood up, and registered he wasn't with Hermione anymore. Panic gripped his heart. He whipped his head around, glasses nearly flying off his face, trying desperately to see where he was.

It was some kind of a potions lab, cauldrons were everywhere, emitting puffs and clouds of multicoloured steam. As he stood, his clothes seemed to pool around him; crimson robes. He wasn't registering things properly – they seemed to be coming in suddenly, disjointedly – colours and smells wavering in and out of his consciousness. He looked up to see who was in the room with him.

Draco Malfoy. 

Harry fumbled for his wand, which was in the pocket of his too-loose trousers. The pain in his scar spiked. Harry's panic was mounting. Was he in the Manor? Was this a trap? Had Voldemort somehow found him? What was going on? Why couldn't he remember? He desperately searched for the nearest exit, which of course was behind the other… man? That wasn't right. Malfoy was his age. This Malfoy was too tall, too broad in the shoulders and the chest. Lines around his eyes and mouth. He was a man. A much older man. 

Malfoy was staring at him. 

“Wha…what did you do?” Harry mumbled, his head spinning. The walls were all too close, his breath high and tight in his chest. This wasn't right, he was just in the forest with Hermione, they'd just gotten back from that horrible moment in Godric's Hollow… The last thing he remembered was the terrible pain from his scar, and his wand...Something had happened to his wand. But it was in his hand. How could he not remember what happened? How could he not remember getting here? Harry swiped a shaky hand down his aching forehead. “Where's Hermione?” 

Draco just continued to stare at him. 

“Where – what… I don't-” Harry's breath wasn't coming anymore. His forehead throbbed with his heartbeat. The walls were too close. Harry vaguely felt his wand slipping out of his grip and went wild, trying to get it back, so he could defend himself, so he could fight his way out and back to Hermione. Malfoy was suddenly right in front of him, and Harry's heart leapt in his chest. He stumbled back, away from the danger. He slipped in the pools of his robes, and felt hands grab him as the pain tripled, and everything went dark. 

-

Nothing made sense. When he'd awoken, he wasn't in that potions lab anymore. He was in a large, comfy bed. He wasn't wearing those huge clothes anymore – he was wearing possibly the softest pyjamas he'd ever worn in his life. The room he was in was bright and clean and spacious, and there was a change of clothes on a table by the door. He'd fully expected to wake up in the clutches of the Death Eaters, Voldemort either already there or on his way to kill him. He didn't expect soft clothes and sheets and his glasses, which had been shrunk to fit him, on a bedside table. Everything was… nice. 

Harry's wand, however, was missing. 

But… that didn't make sense. His wand had been broken in Godric's Hollow. But he'd know his wand anywhere, even in as blind of a panic as he had been in, before. Holly, familiar under his fingers. He swore it had been the same one, whole and in his hand. Nothing was adding up. 

He suddenly, achingly, wanted Ron and Hermione. 

He took a deep breath and shoved the feeling down. He needed to concentrate on escaping. Voldemort wasn't here, or else his scar would be on fire with pain. First, he decided that it wouldn't do any good to still be in his pyjamas when Malfoy or whoever it was came to check on him. He'd rather be clothed and as prepared to run as he needed to be. He put his glasses on and shoved the bed covers off, and started getting ready for whatever was coming his way. 

-

About a half-hour later, there was a knock at the door. Harry tensed, even as he stood and answered it. On the other side, again, was a mysteriously adult-looking Draco Malfoy. He'd filled into his bony, pointed frame, and was much taller than Harry remembered. He was also staring and not saying anything, again. 

“Yes?” Harry said, after an extended amount of staring. Malfoy seemed to snap out of whatever haze he'd been in and gestured for Harry to come out. As he hesitantly walked out, he scanned the hallway for potential exits. Unfortunately, the only available exit was down the stairs. 

Malfoy guarded him as they traversed to a large, warm living room. An ornate fireplace filled one side of the room, crackling merrily with fire, and there were lavish black couches in the centre. The ceiling was painted with the inky darkness of space; shooting stars were flitting back and forth above them. It reminded him, briefly, of Hogwarts. There were spaces on the walls where it looked like portraits had once hung, but were now removed. There were multiple doors leading out of the room, but Harry wasn't sure which led to an exit.

Harry stood uncertainly in the centre of the room, not sure what to make of the seemingly peaceful atmosphere. He'd expected Death Eaters, but maybe this was another waiting area before being tortured. Maybe being stuck in a room with Malfoy was the torture, Harry snorted to himself. He turned to look at Malfoy, then, who was still hovering behind him. He gestured to one of the couches, not quite meeting Harry's eyes. 

Harry silently made his way over to the couch, gingerly sitting as Malfoy sat on the opposite one. Malfoy continued staring at him. It was getting uncomfortable. Harry looked around the room more, half-expecting Death Eaters to pop out, or at least Lucius. 

“Is this your house? The Manor?” Harry asked, not really expecting an answer. Malfoy blinked, then looked around, as if taking in the room for the first time. 

“I suppose if you'd never seen it before… No, this isn't the Manor.” Harry was slightly startled by the reply. It was the first time Malfoy had spoken, and it was… unexpected. His voice didn't have the same snide, nasal quality it did back at Hogwarts. He was surprisingly gentle and soft-spoken. What had happened to Malfoy during their time apart? 

“Malfoy… what happened to you? Did they give you a weird polyjuice potion or something?” Malfoy looked down, Harry assumed to look at himself. After a moment of silence, Harry realised it wasn't in speculation of his older form, but it was in resignation. His shoulders were slumped and his face pinched. Harry started to worry, slightly. 

Finally, Malfoy spoke. “What do you remember?”

Harry looked at him incredulously. Was this a joke? Was he meant to know something? “I remember that we're in the middle of a war.” He said slowly. 

Malfoy nodded, keeping his head down. “Harry,” Harry gazed at Malfoy. He'd never heard the other boy (or should he call him a man, now?) say his name so solemnly, or really use his first name at all. “What year do you think it is?” 

Harry's breath caught in his throat. What kind of a question was that? Had he hit his head, or something?

“1998?” He ventured, worried for the answer. 

Malfoy looked up at him then, his eyes filled with unfamiliar sorrow and pain. Harry suddenly didn't want him to speak at all, potentially ever again, so long as he didn't open his mouth and say something that he really didn't want to hear.

“It's 2007, Harry.”


End file.
